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Welcome, mortal

I: A scientist is someone who endlessly studies the facts, the "why" and "how".
II: An artist is someone who translates their world for others to experience.
III: Both often experience infinite curiosity.
IV: Sometimes one is both a scientist and an artist.
V: Forever searching out the "why"s, and blending their mind to create something others will understand.
VI: Most just want to be seen and understood, as this artist does.
VII: Enter the world and mind of a transmasc nonhuman living in a human body.
VIII: Please understand that all found herein is subject to interpretation.
IX: May your world be the richer for peering through these strange and intense glasses.

An ode to the world pre 2020 and my innocence

 

I miss going to shows

the big concerts, tiny local bands.

I miss watching the crowds

moving in the strobe lights,

ever present scents of

cheap alcohol, sweat, and vape.

Taking a break from crowds

in the biting winter air, underdressed.

Forming strange, one night,

fleeting friendships,

declining hits of acid.

(I hadn't tripped yet)


I miss my blissful naiveté

trusting people to be good.

Being innocent and unknowing

is dangerous, to be sure,

but I still miss it.

I used to be so optimistic

when it came to people.


I miss coffee shops

with their gentle clamour,

places to make a new friend,

meet an old one,

get to know that girl

you met just last week.

Create imaginary friends

in that book you live in,

or in the scene you write,

flowing, brain to fingertips,

tickling and tingling

with excitement to see

your world come into being.

Coffee shops always have

the most comforting of aromas

let your nose lead you into

this enchanted place.


I miss the city bus,

the cross section of humanity

crowded into one small space

for a minute or an hour

until they return to their

individual habitats.

I miss eavesdropping

on the phone calls,

the conversations; breakups

and declarations of true love.

A mother returning home,

a friendship being forged,

lifelong enemies meeting,

the whole world around knows.

A man dropped his phone

I hand it back to him

he offers me weed,

and I tell him I’m staying sober.

Those sacrifices I made

for someone worthless,

will always irk me.


I miss bustling street 

by the house I grew up in

take a sample of the city,

throw it together, add art,

and you’ve got the street

that captured my heart

the first time I visited an

anarchist hippie punk bakery.

It smelled of heaven,

and the reading lounge

was thought provoking

to say the very least.

Old diner tables and

slipping on ice, laughing.

Small, wide ranging shows

I was technically too young for,

make friends with venue owners.

Dancing with my little sister,

in the middle of a parade.

Carrot juice and open mics,

Three am and silence

only shattered by shots.

Painting chairs in gardens,

weirdos of different breeds

congregating on this road,

running away from the cops

with a group of people

who for no understandable reason

followed the lead I took,

after screaming from pickup trucks

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